ode; to blue

1 November 2017

because the senses crave melody
it drips; a whistle caught in cotton vill i
sit. nothing—
this body is beyond capture. but is a simple
sound. whistle;
[elelelelelele] ululation.
it drips; heat exit graft; each twitch
splits—
the hairs on my spine. bird shit
red stone; or white paint or red
flows across tit. all i think
about is Beyonce.
chair tipped touch wood
did she mean to fly
or dive or die or maybe if i am
less boring each act will surrender into
performance. so i practice;
each evening accent regales reflection
neck; checks over shoulder
no ghosts around as audience.
& wonder how twenty women
emerge eyes filled with direction;
i picture each of their bodies turn to paper
& flint markings
on the surface;
pitch them to an ocean of carpet—
grow tired & begin to sing
a lullaby.

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